


J'Accuse

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4432853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during early season 2</p>
            </blockquote>





	J'Accuse

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in my LJ in 2010

Companion fic to _My Heart Cries for You_ :  <http://archiveofourown.org/works/4397945>

 

PART I [the what and why]:

  
“Brian, it’s okay. Wake up!”  
  
I sit up with a start, drenched in sweat, and he's shaking my shoulders. My heart thunders against my ribs as his voice frees me from the diabolical hold of my subconscious.  
  
Mercifully, the pounding in my head lessens but I'm still disoriented. I blink a few times, needing the assurance that I'm here and not there. “What happened?”  
  
“You were dreaming. Having a nightmare, actually.”  
  
I expect him to add 'another one' but he doesn’t. Instead, he stares at me, blue eyes shrouded with concern, and pushes damp strands of hair off my forehead. His tenderness makes me want to vomit. But his hand is cool and comforting on my heated face and I welcome it, at least for the moment. Trying to shake the fog from my brain, I scrub my face with shaky hands and haul myself out of bed. I need a drink.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
I hear his worry, the worry that should never be there—because of me. I tap down the rising bile and infuse my tone with the right amount of  brusqueness to reassure him. “Go back to sleep, Justin. I have to check on the Adware presentation for tomorrow.”  
  
“Now?”  
  
The words tumble out harsher than intended as I head to the bar. “Yes, now!” _Please go to sleep!_  
  
“But—” He stops when he realizes the futility of continuing. He’s always been a fast learner.  
  
He knows I hate when this happens, that it makes me feel weak, that I don’t want him to see it. And he also knows that I know he knows, which is why he doesn’t say anything else, why he lies back down and pretends to sleep. Like I said, he’s a fast learner.  
  
The saying that time heals all wounds is a crock of shit. It heals fucking nothing. Oh, it might dull the pain, but at its core, it’s a sadistic son-of-a-bitch. What happens when you cut something with a dull knife? It takes forever. If the something happens to be you, it hurts like a mother-fucker. I've been stabbed by guilt in ways too numerous to mention. I never thought it could pierce so deep. I was wrong.  
  
I pour a stiff shot of Beam and swallow it in one gulp, savoring the burn. I should go back to bed, back to him _,_ but I don’t. I can't. Instead I trudge to the sofa with the bottle, _fuck the glass_ , and take another long swig, hoping it'll numb my mind. It doesn’t. Unlike the other nights, I have an idea what triggered this one.                                                                                                    
                                                                                                           * * *  
  
Coupled with Brad and Bob's storyboard screw up earlier in the week, the endless public and private meetings with our hopefully-soon-to-be client tested my last nerve. Although the urge to hang everyone by their balls was almost too much to suppress, the dollar signs in my head provided an effective deterrent and I prevailed. Brilliantly, I might add. My often imitated but never duplicated powers of persuasion convinced Provartix to go with the marketing campaign. After we dotted the last _i_ and crossed the last _t_ , everyone thanked me for my visionary expertise. I accepted their gratitude with my customary grace and modesty, then left the minutiae in Cynthia’s capable hands and snuck out early, deciding how to spend the bonus for sealing the deal.      

When I dragged open the loft door, he was on the phone, sprawled on the sofa with his feet dangling over the side. Not a big shock. He was always on the phone with someone—Daphne, Mother Taylor, his sister, doctor, teacher, therapist. I could go on. Engrossed in conversation, I’m pretty sure he didn’t hear me come in, even with the cling and clang of metal. At least, he didn’t acknowledge me, which usually meant he didn’t know I was there. That’s not conceit. It’s the truth.  
  
I could tell it wasn’t a social call. Too serious, too soft. Figuring I’d get the details later anyway, I grabbed a beer and started to go through the mail he considerately dumped on the counter.The latest issue of Car and Driver Magazine held my rapt attention until one word steamrolled into my consciousness. Pain. My ears perked up and I had no choice but to listen.  
  
“...and there was a whoosh and a crash, like a bomb going off inside my head. For a split second, there wasn't even any pain and then suddenly, there was nothing. That's all I remember. I don't know what happened after that. I only know what people told me.”  
  
I wanted to throw up. _His blood on my shoes, his blood on the scarf, his blood in my mouth._  
  
“No, I think that’s it. My mom said I had two surgeries and was in a coma for quite a while. They weren’t even sure I would live. When I finally woke up, it wasn’t for long, just a few seconds here and there at the beginning. What? Oh, yeah, the pain was almost— God, you can’t imagine how unbearable it was.” His voice caught. “Sometimes, sometimes I just wanted them to end it all.”  
  
That did it. Willing my stomach not to regurgitate my lunch, I slammed the bottle on the counter and stumbled to the bathroom. I guess that got his attention because he hurriedly ended his call. But it was too late. I’d heard enough.  
  
PART II [details and explanations]:  
  
Like a persistent fly whose sole purpose was to make him relive that horrible event, the more he tried not to think about it, the more he did. The stealthy little pest usually buzzed around his brain under the cover of night but occasionally ambushed him in the light of day. No matter what he did to swat away the memory—drugs, alcohol, sex—it didn’t work. Of course, it didn’t. He should have known better by now, just as he should have known better then.   
  
**“A rat crept softly through the vegetation dragging its slimy belly on the bank while I was fishing in the dull canal on a winter evening round behind the gashouse.”** TS Eliot  
  
He would give anything to go back, to alter the universe’s time clock. The 'what if' weighed too heavily. He wanted an answer, any answer, that would explain the events of that night because the guilt ate him up and viciously spit him out. And it never stopped. He wasn't the depressive type, but there were days, bleak and dank days, when he wallowed in the hurt. Frame by frame, the entire scene would flash behind his clenched lids, images of the sunshine smile, the radiant eyes, the endless _blood._  
  
Little details consumed him—pressing his hand against the wound to stop the bleeding, oblivious to the sticky liquid oozing between his fingers; pleading with Justin to hold on, willing him not to let go; promising any obscure deity who would listen that he would say anything, do anything for him to survive.   
                                                  _“He is young. He is only a boy._ _You can take. You can give._ _Let him be. Let him live.” ©Schoenberg_

As if it were yesterday— wood against bone...falling...kneeling...wailing sirens...whispered pleas...lifeless...helpless... _always helpless._  
  
Those were the times when he lost the battle. Prohibited tears he never allowed anyone to see would seep between his lashes, their salty trail forever bound to the metallic taste of frantic kisses on crimson lips.  
  
They were also the times when he hated himself the most—for not admitting, for not telling, for not saying what was in his heart that night— _I love you._


End file.
